By: Rizwan Akhtar
The December night was like a cold bunker
I admitted your stares for warmer ends
the world outside was absorbed in a design
two electricity poles fell on innocent cows
their carcass rotted whole day crows darted
lamenting fragile flesh whining dense air
cars passed by our windows unaware of seeds
we kept for a planet that is yet to be orbited
In the evening we read a book about folklore
Were not we making one in a closed room?
There was no one outside using language anymore
We chose a hole to keep silence uncontaminated.
From Across the Margin